POEMS 



■Err j. 



1 TA/'A z> n 



ROWLAND SILL 







mm 

•■•'■■■■■,.■■' 
■ '■'••:■ 

HI 



■ 

.■'''■■■.•. 



_JBi 






SOTW8 



X 




Class PS £%35 

Book M 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/poems01sill 



33oo&6 fcp ©Stoat* EotolanU Js>iIL 



POEMS. i6mo, $1.00; illuminated parchment 
paper, $1.00. 

THE HERMITAGE, and Later Poems. With 
Portrait. i6mo, $1.00; illuminated parchment 
paper, $1.00. 

HERMIONE, and Other Poems. i6mo, $1.00. 

THE PROSE OF EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. 
With an Introduction comprising some Familiar 
Letters. i6mo, §1.25. 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY, 

Boston and New York. 



POEMS 



By 
EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 



t 



31) ) 3 



5 3 ^> 



» -, -> J 33 3 OS 3 "" > 3 



3 3 

v 






BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

Houghton, Mifflin and Company 



-pS** 3 * 



;*Vl 



Copyright, 1887, 
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CG. 

All rights reserved. 



* « O -O € , , 






7^ Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Company. 



NOTE. 

In presenting this volume of poems to 
the public it is proper to state briefly the 
circumstances under which it has been 
gathered. A year or two ago the pub- 
lishers, who had noted with interest the 
poems which Mr. Sill had been contrib- 
uting to the Atlantic and other periodi- 
cals, both under his own name and under 
pseudonyms, invited him to make a col- 
lection of his recent poems for publica- 
tion in a volume. He was in no haste 
to do this. He was doubtless conscious 
that his power was a growing one, as in- 
deed the quick succession of poems indi- 
cated. At any rate he had that fine sense 
of poetic art which forbade him to be 
complacent over his own productions, 



iv Note 

and he preferred to send fresh poems 
out, month by month, waiting for the day 
when a volume should be inevitable. 

In the midst of his mental activity, 
when he was acquiring great flexibility in 
the use of a variety of literary forms, he 
died. After his death, so freely, even 
carelessly, had he let his verses go, that 
month by month new poems under his 
familiar signatures appeared in the mag- 
azines, as if he went out of the sight of 
men, singing on his way. It seemed then 
only just to his memory, and due to lit- 
erature, which he loved with a generous 
mind, that the present volume should be 
gathered. In making choice of its con- 
tents it has been thought best to take but 
five pieces from The Hermitage and other 
Poems, the only volume published by him, 
and containing his poetic work previous 
to 1868, the date of its appearance from 
the house of Leypoldt & Holt. When Mr. 
Sill bade good-by to his friends in Cali- 



Note v 

fornia in 1883, he left with them a small, 
privately printed volume, bearing the title 
The Venus of Milo and other Poems. A 
large portion of its contents is included 
in the present work, which finally con- 
tains a selection from the uncollected 
poems of the last four or five years. 

It will be seen by this statement that 
no attempt has been made to publish the 
body of Mr. Sill's poetic work, nor even 
to indicate the quality of his poetry at 
different periods of his life. Regard has 
been had to what may properly be con- 
sidered as his own judgment in such a 
case, and while a few illustrations are 
given of the spirit which pervaded his ear- 
lier verse and never essentially changed, 
the main contents are drawn from the 
poetry which represents his maturity and 
the period when his technical skill was 
most highly developed. His own deep 
respect for his art forbids that his friends 
should be governed by other considera- 



vi Note 

tions than a love and admiration for fine 
poetry. 

Since this volume therefore is addressed 
not primarily to the friends of Mr. Sill, 
who would eagerly preserve all that he 
wrote, but to the larger public that can 
know his personality only as it is hinted 
through his verse, a single word may be 
said regarding his career. He was born 
in Windsor, Connecticut, in 1841, and 
graduated at Yale College with the class 
of 1 86 1. He went to California not long 
after graduation, and at first engaged in 
business, but in 1867 returned east with 
the expectation of entering the minis- 
try, and studied for a few months at the 
Divinity School of Harvard University. 
He gave up the purpose, however, mar- 
ried, and occupied himself with literary 
work, translating Rau's Mozart, holding 
an editorial position on the New York 
Evening Mail, and bringing out his voL 
ume of poems. 



Note vii 

His peculiar power in stimulating the 
minds of others drew him into the work 
of teaching, and he became principal of 
an academy in Ohio. His California life, 
however, had given him a strong attach- 
ment to the Pacific coast and a sense that 
his health would be better there, and ac- 
cordingly, on receiving an invitation to a 
position in the Oakland High School, he 
removed to California in 187 1, remaining 
there till 1883. I n I ^74 he accepted the 
chair of English Literature in the Univer- 
sity of California, and identified himself 
closely with the literary life which found 
its expression in magazines and social 
organization. 

Upon his return to the east with the 
intention of devoting himself more exclu- 
sively to literary work, he began that 
abundant production which has been 
hinted at, and which, anonymous for the 
most part, was rapidly giving him facility 
of execution and drawing attention to 



viii Note 

the versatility, the insight, the sympa- 
thetic power, the inspiring force which 
had always marked his teaching and bade 
fair to bring a large and appreciative 
audience about him. He lived remote 
from the press of active life, always close 
to the centre of current intellectual and 
spiritual movements, in the village of 
Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio, where he died 
after a brief illness, February 27, 1887. 

November, 1887. 



CONTENTS. 

Page 

The Venus of Milo i 

Field Xotes 12 

Morning 25 

x Life 27 

Faith 28 

Solitude 30 

Retrospect 31 

Christmas in California . . 33 

Among the Redwoods 38 

Opportunity 43 

Home 45 

Reverie 47 

Five Lives 49 

Tranquillity 54 

Dare You ? 56 

The Invisible 58 

Peace 61 

* The Fool's Prayer 62 

The Deserter 65 

The Reformer 66 

Desire of Sleep 6S 



x Contents 

Her Explanation 70 

Eve's Daughter 72 

Blindfold . . . . . 74 

Recall 76 

Strange . . 78 

Wiegenlied 80 

An Ancient Error 82 

To a Face at a Concert . 84 

Two Views of it 86 

The Links of Chance 88 

" Words, Words, Words " 90 

The Thrush . . 93 

Carpe Diem 95 

Service 96 

The Book of Hours 98 

The Wonderful Thought 100 

Nature and her Child 104 

The Foster-Mother 106 

Truth at Last 107 

" Quern Metui Moritura?" 109 

A Morning Thought ......... II I 



POEMS 



BY 



EDWARD ROWLAND SILL 




THE VENUS OF MILO. 

HERE fell a vision to Praxiteles : 
Watching thro' drowsy lids the 
loitering seas 
That lay caressing with white arms of foam 
The sleeping marge of his Ionian home, 
He saw great Aphrodite standing near, 
Knew her, at last, the Beautiful he had 

sought 
With life-long passion, and in love and fear 
Into unsullied stone the vision wrought. 

Far other was the form that Cnidos gave 
To senile Rome, no longer free or brave, — 



2 The Venus of Milo 

The Medicean, naked like a slave. 

The Cnidians built her shrine 

Of creamy ivory line ; 

Most costly was the floor 

Of scented cedar, and from door 

Was looped to carven door 

Rich stuff of Tyrian purple, in whose shade 

Her glistening shoulders and round limbs 

outshone, 
Milk-white as lilies in a summer moon. 
Here honey-hearted Greece to worship 

came, 
And on her altar leaped a turbid flame, 
The quickened blood ran dancing to its 

doom, 
And lip sought trembling lip in that rich 

gloom. 

But the island people of Cos, by the 
salt main 
From Persia's touch kept clean, 
Chose for their purer shrine amid the seas 
That grander vision of Praxiteles. 



The Venus of Milo 3 

Long ages after, sunken in the ground 
Of sea-girt Melos, wondering shepherds 

found 
The marred and dinted copy which men 

name 
Venus of Milo, saved to endless fame. 

Before the broken marble, on a day, 
There came a worshiper : a slanted ray 
Struck in across the dimness of her shrine 
And touched her face as to a smile divine ; 
For it was like the worship of a Greek 
At her old altar. Thus I heard him 
speak : — 

Men call thee Love : is there no holier 

name 
Than hers, the foam-born, laughter-loving 

dame ? 
Nay, for there is than love no holier name : 
All words that pass the lips of mortal men 
With inner and with outer meaning shine ; 
An outer gleam that meets the common 

ken, 



4 The Venus of Milo 

An inner light that but the few divine. 
Thou art the love celestial, seeking still 
The soul beneath the form ; the serene 

will ; 
The wisdom, of whose deeps the sages 

dream ; 
The unseen beauty that doth faintly gleam 
In stars, and flowers, and waters where 

they roll ; 
The unheard music whose faint echoes 

even 
Make whosoever hears a homesick soul 
Thereafter, till he follow it to heaven. 

Larger than mortal woman I see thee 

stand, 
With beautiful head bent forward steadily, 
As if those earnest eyes could see 
Some glorious thing far off, to which thy 

hand 
Invisibly stretched onward seems to be. 
From thy white forehead's breadth of calm, 

the hair 



The Venus of Milo 5 

Sweeps lightly, as a cloud in windless air. 
Placid thy brows, as that still line at 

dawn 
Where the dim hills along the sky are 

drawn, 
When the last stars are drowned in deeps 

afar. 
Thy quiet mouth — I know not if it smile ? 
Or if in some wise pity thou wilt weep, — 
Little as one may tell, some summer morn, 
Whether the dreamy brightness is most 

glad, 
Or wonderfully sad, — 
So bright, so still thy lips serenely sleep ; 
So fixedly thine earnest eyes the while, 
As clear and steady as the morning star, 
Their gaze upon that coming glory keep. 

Thy garment's fallen folds 
Leave beautiful the fair, round breast 
In sacred loveliness ; the bosom deep 
Where happy babe might sleep ; 
The ample waist no narrowing girdle holds, 



6 The Venus of Milo 

Where daughters slim might come to cling 

and rest, 
Like tendriled vines against the plane-tree 

pressed. 
Around thy firm, large limbs and steady 

feet 
The robes slope downward, as the folded 

hills 
Slope round the mountain's knees, when 

shadow fills 
The hollow canons, and the wind is sweet 
From russet oat-fields and the ripening 

wheat. 

From our low world no gods have taken 

wing ; 
Even now upon our hills the tw r ain are 

wandering ; 
The Medicean's sly and servile grace, 
And the immortal beauty of thy face. 
One is the spirit of all short-lived love 
And outward, earthly loveliness : 
The tremulous rosy morn is her mouth's 

smile, 



The Venus of Milo J 

The sky her laughing azure eyes above ; 

And, waiting for caress, 

Lie bare the soft hill-slopes, the while 

Her thrilling voice is heard 

In song of wind and wave, and every flit- 
ting bird. 

Not plainly, never quite herself she shows ; 

Just a swift glance of her illumined smile 

Along the landscape goes ; 

Just a soft hint of singing, to beguile 

A man from all his toil ; 

Some vanished gleam of beckoning arm, 
to spoil 

A morning's task with longing wild and 
vain. 

Then if across the parching plain 

He seek her, she with passion burns 

His heart to fever, and he hears 

The west wind's mocking laughter when 
he turns, 

Shivering in mist of ocean's sullen tears. 

It is the Medicean : well I know 

The arts her ancient subtlety will show ; 



8 Tloe Venus of Milo 

The stubble-field she turns to ruddy gold ; 

The empty distance she will fold 

In purple gauze : the warm glow she has 

kissed 
Along the chilling mist : 
Cheating and cheated love that grows to 

hate 
And ever deeper loathing, soon or late. 

Thou, too, O fairer spirit, walkest here 
Upon the lifted hills : 
Wherever that still thought within the 

breast 
The inner beauty of the world hath moved ; 
In starlight that the dome of evening fills ; 
On endless waters rounding to the west : 
For them who thro' that beauty's veil have 

loved 
The soul of all things beautiful the best. 
For lying broad awake, long ere the dawn, 
Staring against the dark, the blank of 

space 
Opens immeasurably, and thy face 



The Venus of Milo g 

Wavers and glimmers there and is with- 
drawn. 
And many days, when all one's work is 

vain, 
And life goes stretching on, a waste gray 

plain, 
With even the short mirage of morning 

gone, 
No cool breath anywhere, no shadow nigh 
Where a weary man might lay him dow r n 

and die, 
Lo ! thou art there before me suddenly, 
With shade as if a summer cloud did pass, 
And spray of fountains whispering to the 

grass. 
Oh, save me from the haste and noise and 

heat 
That spoil life's music sweet : 
And from that lesser Aphrodite there — 
Even now she stands 
Close as I turn, and, O my soul, how fair ! 
Nay, I will heed not thy white beckoning 

hands, 



io The Venus of Milo 

Nor thy soft lips like the curled inner leaf 
In a rosebud's breast, kissed languid by 

the sun, 
Nor eyes like liquid gleams where waters 

run. 
Yea, thou art beautiful as morn ; 
And even as I draw nigh 
To scoff, I own the loveliness I scorn. 
Farewell, for thou hast lost me : keep thy 

train 
Of worshipers ; me thou dost lure in vain : 
The inner passion, pure as very fire, 
Burns to light ash the earthlier desire. 

O greater Aphrodite, unto thee 
Let me not say farewell. What would 

Earth be 
Without thy presence ? Surely unto me 
A life-long weariness, a dull, bad dream. 
Abide with me, and let thy calm brows 

beam 
Fresh hope upon me every amber dawn, 
New peace when evening's violet veil is 

drawn. 



The Venus of Milo 1 1 

Then, tho' I see along the glooming plain 

The Medicean's waving hand again, 

And white feet glimmering in the harvest- 
field, 

I shall not turn, nor yield ; 

But as heaven deepens, and the Cross and 
Lyre 

Lift up their stars beneath the Northern 
Crown, 

Unto the yearning of the world's desire 

I shall be 'ware of answer coming down ; 

And something, when my heart the dark- 
ness stills, 

Shall tell me, without sound or any sight, 

That other footsteps are upon the hills ; 

Till the dim earth is luminous with the 
light 

Of the white dawn, from some far-hidden 
shore, 

That shines upon thy forehead evermore. 




FIELD NOTES.* 

i. 

Y the wild fence-row, all grown up 
With tall oats, and the buttercup, 
And the seeded grass, and blue 
flax-flower, 
I fling myself in a nest of green, 
Walled about and all unseen, 
And lose myself in the quiet hour. 
Now and then from the orchard-tree 
To the sweet clover at my knee 
Hums the crescendo of a bee, 
Making the silence seem more still ; 
Overhead on a maple prong 
The least of birds, a jeweled sprite, 

* Written for the graduating class of 1882, at Smith Col. 
lege, Northampton, Mass. It is a pleasant custom at 
that college for each class to send abroad and invite some 
one to celebrate its entrance into the greater world. 



Field Notes 13 

With burnished throat and needle bill, 
Wags his head in the golden light, 
Till it flashes, and dulls, and flashes bright, 
Cheeping his microscopic song. 

11. 

Far up the hill-farm, where the breeze 

Dips its wing in the billowy grain, 

Waves go chasing from the plain 

On softly undulating seas ; 

Now near my nest they swerve and turn, 

And now go wandering without aim ; 

Or yonder, where the poppies burn, 

Race up the slope in harmless flame. 

Sometimes the bold wind sways my walls, 

My four green walls of the grass and oats, 

But never a slender column falls, 

And the blue sky-roof above them floats,. 

Cool in the glowing sun I feel 

On wrist and cheek the sea-breeze steal 

From the wholesome ocean brine. 

The air is full of the whispering pine, 

Surf-sound of an aerial sea ; 



14 Field Notes 

And the light clashing, near and far, 
As of mimic shield and scimitar, 
Of the slim Australian tree. 

in. 

So all that azure day 
In the lap of the green world I lay ; 
And drinking of the sunshine's flood, 
Like Sigurd when the dragon's blood 
Made the bird-songs understood, 
Inward or outward I could hear 
A murmuring of music near ; 
And this is what it seemed to say : — 

IV. 

Old earth, how beautiful thou art ! 

Though restless fancy wander wide 

And sigh in dreams for spheres more 

blest, 
Save for some trouble, half-confessed, 
Some least misgiving, all my heart 
With such a world were satisfied. 
Had every day such skies of blue, 



Field Notes 15 

Were men all wise, and women true, 
Might youth as calm as manhood be, 
And might calm manhood keep its lore 
And still be young — and one thing more, 
Old earth were fair enough for me. 

Ah, sturdy world, old patient world ! 
Thou hast seen many times and men ; 
Heard jibes and curses at thee hurled 
From cynic lip and peevish pen. 
But give the mother once her due : 
Were women wise, and men all true — 
And one thing more that may not be, 
Old earth were fair enough for me. 

v. 

If only we were worthier found 

Of the stout ball that bears us round ! 

New wants, new ways, pert plans of 

change, 
New answers to old questions strange ; 
But to the older questions still 
No new replies have come, or will. 



}6 Field Notes 

New speed to buzz abroad and see 

Cities where one needs not to be ; 

But no new way to dwell at home, 

Or there to make great friendships come j 

No novel way to seek or find 

True hearts and the heroic mind. 

Of atom force and chemic stew 

Nor Socrates nor Caesar knew, 

But the old ages knew a plan — 

The lost art — how to mold a man, 

VI. 

World, wise old world, 

What may man do for thee ? 

Thou that art greater than all of us, 

What wilt thou do to me ? 

This glossy curve of the tall grass-spear — 

Can I make its lustrous green more clear ? 

This tapering shaft of oat, that knows 

To grow erect as the great pine grows, 

And to sway in the wind as well as he — < 

Can I teach it to nod more graciously ? 

The lark on the mossy rail so nigh, 



Field Notes ly 

Wary, but pleased if I keep my place — 
Who could give a single grace 
To his flute-note sweet and high, 
Or help him find his nest hard by ? 
Can I add to the poppy's gold one bit ? 
Can I deepen the sky, or soften it ? 



VII. 

^Eons as;o a rock crashed down 
From a mountain's crown, 
Where a tempest's tread 
Crumbled it from its hold. 
Ages dawn and in turn grow old ■. 
The rock lies still and dead. 
Flames come and floods come, 
Sea rolls this mountain crumb 
To a pebble, in its play ; 
Till at the last man came to be, 
And a thousand generations passed away. 
Then from the bed of a brook one day 
A boy with the heart of a king 
Fitted the stone to his shepherd sling. 
And a giant fell, and a royal race was 
free. 



1 8 Field Notes 

Not out e/f any cloud or sky 
Will thy good come to prayer or cry. 
Let the great forces, wise of old, 
Have their whole way with thee, 
Crumble thy heart from its hold, 
Drown thy life in the sea. 
And aeons hence, some day, 
The love thou gavest a child, 
The dream in a midnight wild, 
The word thou wouldst not say — 
Or in a whisper no one dared to hear, 
Shall gladden the earth and bring the 
golden year. 

VIII. 

Just now a spark of fire 

Flashed from a builder's saw 

On the ribs of a roof a mile away. 

His has been the better day, 

Gone not in dreams, nor even the subtle 

desire 
Not to desire ; 
f>ut work is the sober law 



Field Notes ig 

He knows well to obey. 
It is a poem he fits and fashions well ; 
And the five chambers are five acts of it : 
Hope in one shall dwell, 
In another fear will sit ; 
In the chamber on the east 
Shall be the bridal feast ; 
In the western one 
The dead shall lie alone. 
So the cycles of life shall fill 
The clean, pine-scented rooms where now 
he works his will. 

IX. 

Might one be healed from fevering 

thought, 
And only look, each night, 
On some plain work well wrought , 
Or if a man as right and true might be 
As a flower or tree ! 
I would give up all the mind 
In the prim city's hoard can find — 
House with its scrap-art bedight, 



20 Field Notes 

Straitened manners of the street, 

Smooth-voiced society — 

If so the swiftness of the wind 

Might pass into my feet ; 

If so the sweetness of the wheat 

Into my soul might pass, 

And the clear courage of the grass 

If the lark caroled in my song ; 

If one tithe of the faithfulness 

Of the bird-mother with her brood 

Into my selfish heart might press, 

And make me also instinct-good. 



Life is a game the soul can play 
With fewer pieces than men say. 
Only to grow as the grass grows, 
Prating not of joys or woes ; 
To burn as the steady hearth-fire burns 5 
To shine as the star can shine, 
Or only as the mote of dust that turns 
Darkling and twinkling in the beam of 
light divine ; 



Field Notes 21 

And for my wisdom — glad to know 
Where the sweetest beech-nuts grow, 
And to track out the spicy root, 
Or peel the musky core of the wild-berry 

shoot ; 
And how the russet ground-bird bold 
With both slim feet at once will lightly 

rake the mold ; 
And why moon-shadows from the swaying 

limb 
Here are sharp and there are dim ; 
And how the ant his zigzag way can hold 
Through the grass that is a grove to him. 

'T were good to live one's life alone. 

So to share life with many a one : 

To keep a thought seven years, and then 

Welcome it coming to you 

On the way from another's brain and pen, 

So to judge if it be true. 

Then would the world be fair, 

Beautiful as is the past, 

Whose beauty we can see at last 

Since self no more is there. 



22 Field Notes 

XI. 

I will be glad to be and do, 

And glad of all good men that live, 

For they are woof of nature too ; 

Glad of the poets every one, 

Pure Longfellow, great Emerson, 

And all that Shakspeare's world can give. 

When the road is dust, and the grass 

dries, 
Then will I gaze on the deep skies ; 
And if Dame Nature frown in cloud, 
Well, mother — then my heart shall say — 
You cannot so drive me away ; 
I will still exult aloud, 
Companioned of the good hard ground, 
Whereon stout hearts of every clime, 
In the battles of all time, 
Foothold and couch have found. 



XII. 



Joy to the laughing troop 
That from the threshold starts, 



Field Notes 25 

Led on by courage and immortal hope, 

And with the morning in their hearts. 

They to the disappointed earth shall give 

The lives we meant to live, 

Beautiful, free, and strong ; 

The light we almost had 

Shall make them glad ; 

The words we waited long 

Shall run in music from their voice and 

song. 
Unto our world hope's daily oracles 
From their lips shall be brought ; 
And in our lives love's hourly miracles 
By them be wrought. 
Their merry task shall be 
To make the house all fine and sweet 
Its new inhabitants to greet, 
The wondrous dawning century. 



XIII. 



And now the close of this fair day was 

come ; 
The bay grew duskier on its purple floor, 



24 Field Notes 

And the long curve of foam 
Drew its white net along a dimmer shore. 
Through the fading saffron light, 
Through the deepening shade of even, 
The round earth rolled into the summer 

night, 
And watched the kindling of the stars in 

heaven. 




MORNING. 

ENTERED once, at break of 

day, 
A chapel, lichen - stained and 

gray, 

Where a congregation dozed and heard 
An old monk read from a written Word. 
No light through the window-panes could 

pass, 
For shutters were closed on the rich 

stained-glass •, 
And in a gloom like the nether night 
The monk read on by a taper's light. 
Ghostly with shadows, that shrank and 

grew 
As the dim light flared, were aisle and 

pew; 
And the congregation that dozed around, 
Listened without a stir or sound — 



26 Morning 

Save one, who rose with wistful face, 
And shifted a shutter from its place. 
Then light flashed in like a flashing gem — 
For dawn had come unknown to them — 
And a slender beam, like a lance of gold, 
Shot to the crimson curtain-fold, 
Over the bended head of him 
Who pored and pored by the taper dim ; 
And it kindled over his wrinkled brow 
Such words — " The law which was till 

now ; " 
And I wondered that, under that morning 

ray, 
When night and shadow were scattered 

away, 
The monk should bow his locks of white 
By a taper's feebly flickering light — 
Should pore, and pore, and never seem 
To notice the golden morning-beam. 




LIFE. 

ORENOON and afternoon and 
night, — Forenoon, 
And afternoon, and night, — 
Forenoon, and — what ! 
The empty song repeats itself. No more ? 
Yea, that is Life : make this forenoon sub- 
lime, 
This afternoon a psalm, this night a 

prayer, 
And Time is conquered, and thy crown is 
won. 




FAITH. 

HE tree-top, high above the bar- 
ren field, 
Rising beyond the night's gray- 
folds of mist, 
Rests stirless where the upper air is sealed 
To perfect silence, by the faint moon 
kiss'd. 
But the low branches, drooping to the 
ground, 
Sway to and fro, as sways funereal 
plume, 
While from their restless depths low whis- 
pers sound — 
" We fear, we fear the darkness and the 

gloom ; 
Dim forms beneath us pass and re- 
appear, 
And mournful tongues are menacing us 
here." 



Faith 29 

Then from the topmost bough falls calm 

reply — 
" Hush, hush ! I see the coming of the 

morn; 
Swiftly the silent Night is passing by, 
And in her bosom rosy Dawn is borne. 
5 T is but your own dim shadows that ye 

see, 
Tis but your own low moans that 

trouble ye." 

So Life stands, with a twilight world 

around ; 
Faith turned serenely to the steadfast sky, 
Still answering the heart that sweeps the 

ground, 
Sobbing in fear, and tossing restlessly — 
" Hush, hush ! The Dawn breaks o'er 

the Eastern sea, 
'T is but thine own dim shadow trour> 

ling thee/' 




SOLITUDE. 

LL alone — alone, 
Calm, as on a kingly throne, 
Take thy place in the crowded 
land, 
Self-centred in free self-command. 
Let thy manhood leave behind 
The narrow ways of the lesser mind : 
What to thee are its little cares, 
The feeble love or the spite it bears ? 
Let the noisy crowd go by : 
In thy lonely watch on high, 
Far from the chattering tongues of men, 
Sitting above their call or ken, 
Free from links of manner and form 
Thou shalt learn of the winged storm — 
God shall speak to thee out of the sky. 




RETROSPECT. 

OT all which we have been 
Do we remain, 
Nor on the dial-hearts of men 
Do the years mark themselves in vain ; 
But every cloud that in our sky hath 

passed, 
Some gloom or glory hath upon us cast ; 
And there have fallen from us, as we 
traveled, 
Many a burden of an ancient pain — 
Many a tangled chord hath been unraveled, 

Never to bind our foolish heart again. 
Old loves have left us lingeringly and slow, 
As melts away the distant strain of low 
Sweet music — waking us from troubled 

dreams, 
Lulling to holier ones — that dies afar 
On the deep night, as if by silver beams 



32 Retrospect 

Claspt to the trembling breast of some 

charmed star. 
And we have stood and watched, all wist- 

fully, 
While fluttering hopes have died out of 

our lives, 
As one who follows with a straining eye 
A bird that far, far-off fades in the sky, 
A little rocking speck — now lost ; and 

still he strives 
A moment to recover it — in vain ; 
Then slowly turns back to his work again. 
But loves and hopes have left us in their 

place, 
Thank God ! a gentle grace, 
A patience, a belief in His good time, 
Worth more than all earth's joys to which 

we climb. 




CHRISTMAS IN CALIFORNIA. 

AN this be Christmas — sweet as 
May, 
With drowsy sun, and dreamy 
air, 
And new grass pointing out the way 
For flowers to follow, everywhere ? 

Has Time grown sleepy at his post, 
And let the exiled Summer back, 

Or is it her regretful ghost, 
Or witchcraft of the almanac ? 

While wandering breaths of mignonette 

In at the open window come, 
I send my thoughts afar, and let 

Them paint your Christmas Day at 
home. 



$4 Christmas in California 

Glitter of ice, and glint of frost, 
And sparkles in the crusted snow ; 

And hark ! the dancing sleigh-bells, tost 
The faster as they fainter grow. 

The creaking footsteps hurry past ; 

The quick breath dims the frosty air ; 
And down the crisp road slipping fast 

Their laughing loads the cutters bear. 

Penciled against the cold white sky, 
Above the curling eaves of snow, 

The thin blue smoke lifts lingeringly, 
As loth to leave the mirth below. 

For at the door a merry din 

Is heard, with stamp of feathery feet, 
And chattering girls come storming in, 

To toast them at the roaring grate. 

And then from muff and pocket peer, 
And many a warm and scented nook, 



Christmas in California 35 

Mysterious little bundles queer, 

That, rustling, tempt the curious look. 

Now broad upon the southern walls 
The mellowed sun's great smile appears, 

And tips the rough-ringed icicles 

With sparks, that grow to glittering tears. 

Then, as the darkening day goes by, 
The wind gets gustier without, 

And leaden streaks are on the sky, 
And whirls of snow are all about. 

Soon firelight shadows, merry crew, 
Along the darkling walls will leap 

And clap their hands, as if they knew 
A thousand things too good to keep. 

Sweet eyes with home's contentment filled, 
As in the smouldering coals they peer, 

Haply some wondering pictures build 
Of how I keep my Christmas here. 



)6 Christmas in California 

Before me, on the wide, warm bay, 

A million azure ripples run ; 
Round me the sprouting palm-shoots lay 

Their shining lances to the sun. 

With glossy leaves that poise or swing, 
The callas their white cups unfold, 

And faintest chimes of odor ring 

From silver bells with tongues of gold. 

A languor of deliciousness 

Fills all the sea-enchanted clime ; 

And in the blue heavens meet, and kiss, 
The loitering clouds of summer-time. 

This fragrance of the mountain balm 
From spicy Lebanon might be ; 

Beneath such sunshine's amber calm 
Slumbered the waves of Galilee. 

O wondrous gift, in goodness given, 
Each hour anew our eyes to greet, 



Christmas in California $j 

An earth so fair — so close to Heaven, 
'T was trodden by the Master's feet. 

And we — what bring we in return ? 

Only these broken lives, and lift 
Them up to meet His pitying scorn, 

As some poor child its foolish gift : 

As some poor child on Christmas Day 
Its broken toy in love might bring ; 

You could not break its heart and say 
You cared not for the worthless thing ? 

Ah, word of trust, His child ! That child 
Who brought to earth the life divine, 

Tells me the Father's pity mild 

Scorns not even such a gift as mine. 

I am His creature, and His air 

I breathe, where'er my feet may stand ; 
The angels' song rings everywhere, 

And all the earth is Holy Land. 




AMONG THE REDWOODS. 

AREWELL to such a world ! Too 
long I press 
The crowded pavement with un- 
willing feet. 
Pity makes pride, and hate breeds hate- 
fulness, 
And both are poisons. In the forest, 
sweet 
The shade, the peace ! Immensity, that 

seems 
To drown the human life of doubts and 
dreams. 

Far off the massive portals of the wood, 
Buttressed with shadow, misty-blue, se- 
rene, 
Waited my coming. Speedily I stood 
Where the dun wall rose roofed in 
plumy green. 



Among the Redwoods 39 

Dare one go in ? — Glance backward ! 
Dusk as night 

Each column, fringed with sprays of am- 
ber light. 

Let me, along this fallen bole, at rest, 
Turn to the cool, dim roof my glowing 
face. 
Delicious dark on weary eyelids prest ! 

Enormous solitude of silent space, 
But for a low and thunderous ocean sound, 
Too far to hear, felt thrilling through the 
ground. 

No stir nor call the sacred hush profanes ; 
Save when from some bare tree-top, far 

on high, 
Fierce disputations of the clamorous 

cranes 
Fall muffled, as from out the upper sky. 
So still, one dreads to wake the dreaming 

air, 
Breaks a twig softly, moves the foot with 

care. 



40 Among the Redwoods 

The hollow dome is green with empty 

shade, 
Struck through with slanted shafts of 

afternoon ; 
Aloft, a little rift of blue is made, 

Where slips a ghost that last night was 

the moon ; 
Beside its pearl a sea-cloud stays its 

wing, 
Beneath a tilted hawk is balancing. 

The heart feels not in every time and 
mood 
What is around it. Dull as any stone 

I lay ; then, like a darkening dream, the 
wood 
Grew Karnak's temple, where I breathed 
alone 

In the awed air strange incense, and up- 
rose 

Dim, monstrous columns in their dread re* 
pose. 



Among the Redwoods 41 

The mind not always sees ; but if there 
shine 
A bit of fern-lace bending over moss, 
A silky glint that rides a spider-line, 
On a trefoil two shadow - spears that 
cross, 
Three grasses that toss up their nodding 

heads, 
With spring and curve like clustered foun- 
tain-threads, — 

Suddenly, through side windows of the 
eye, 
Deep solitudes, where never souls have 
met ; 
Vast spaces, forest corridors that lie 

In a mysterious world, unpeopled yet. 
Because the outward eye elsewhere was 

caught, 
The awfulness and wonder come unsought. 

If death be but resolving back again 
Into the world's deep soul, this is a kind 



42 Among the Redwoods 

Of quiet, happy death, untouched by 
pain 
Or sharp reluctance. For I feel my 
mind 
Is interfused with all I hear and see ; 
As much a part of All as cloud or tree. 

Listen ! A deep and solemn wind on 
high; 
The shafts of shining dust shift to and 
fro ; 

The columned trees sway imperceptibly, 
And creak as mighty masts when trade- 
winds blow. 

The cloudy sails are set ; the earth-ship 
swings 

Along the sea of space to grander things. 




OPPORTUNITY. 

HIS I beheld, or dreamed it in a 

dream : — 
There spread a cloud of dust 

along a plain ; 
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged 
A furious battle, and men yelled, and 

swords 
Shocked upon swords and shields. A 

prince's banner 
Wavered, then staggered backward, 

hemmed by foes. 
A craven hung along the battle's edge, 
And thought, " Had I a sword of keener 

steel — 
That blue blade that the king's son 

bears, — but this 
Blunt thing — ! " he snapt and flung it 

from his hand, 



44 Opportunity 

And lowering crept away and left the field. 

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore 
bestead, 

And weaponless, and saw the broken 
sword, 

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, 

And ran and snatched it, and with battle- 
shout 

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, 

And saved a great cause that heroic day 8 




HOME. 

HERE lies a little city in the 

hills; 
White are its roofs, dim is each 
dwelling's door, 
And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills. 

There the pure mist, the pity of the sea, 
Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches 

o'er 
And touches its still face most tenderly. 

Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting 

years, 
Lo ! where it lies, far from the clash and 

roar, 
With quiet distance blurred, as if thro' 

tears. 



46 Home 

O heart, that prayest so for God to send 
Some loving messenger to go before 
And lead the way to where thy longings 
end, 

Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come 
His kindest angel, and through that still 

door 
Into the Infinite love will lead thee home* 




REVERIE. 

HETHER 't was in that dome of 
evening sky, 
So hollow where the few great 
stars were bright, 
Or something in the cricket's lonely cry, 
Or, farther off, where swelled upon the 

night 
The surf-beat of the symphony's delight, 
Then died in crumbling cadences away — 
A dream of Schubert's soul, too sweet to 
stay : 

Whether from these, or secret spell with- 
in, — 
It seemed an empty waste of endless 
sea, 

Where the waves mourned for what had 
never been, 



48 Reverie 

Where the wind sought for what could 

never be : 
Then all was still, in vast expectancy 
Of powers that waited but some mystic 

sign 
To touch the dead world to a life divine. 

Me, too, it filled — that breathless, blind 
desire ; 
And every motion of the oars of thought 
Thrilled all the deep in flashes — sparks 
of fire 
In meshes of the darkling ripples caught, 
Swiftly rekindled, and then quenched to 
naught ; 
And the dark held me ; wish and will 

were none : 
A soul unformed and void, silent, alone, 
And brooded over by the Infinite One c 




FIVE LIVES. 

IVE mites of monads dwelt in a 
round drop 
That twinkled on a leaf by a 
pool in the sun. 
To the naked eye they lived invisible ; 
Specks, for a world of whom the empty 

shell 
Of a mustard-seed had been a hollow sky. 

One was a meditative monad, called a 

sage; 
And, shrinking all his mind within, he 

thought : 
" Tradition, handed down for hours and 

hours, 
Tells that our globe, this quivering crystal 

world, 
Is slowly dying. What if, seconds hence, 



jo Five Lives 

When I am very old, yon shimmering 

dome 
Come drawing down and down, till all 

things end ? " 
Then with a weazen smirk he proudly 

felt 
No other mote of God had ever gained 
Such giant grasp of universal truth. 

One was a transcendental monad ; thin 

And long and slim in the mind ; and thus 
he mused : 

" Oh, vast, unfathomable monad-souls ! 

Made in the image " — a hoarse frog 
croaks from the pool — 

" Hark ! 't was some god, voicing his glo- 
rious thought 

In thunder music ! Yea, we hear their 
voice, 

And we may guess their minds from ours, 
their work. 

Some taste they have like ours, some ten- 
dency 



Five Lives 5/ 

To wriggle about, and munch a trace of 

scum." 
He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas 
That burst, pricked by the air, and he was 

gone. 

One was a barren-minded monad, called 
A positivist ; and he knew positively : 
"There is no world beyond this certain 

drop. 
Prove me another ! Let the dreamers 

dream 
Of their faint gleams, and noises from 

without, 
And higher and lower ; life is life enough." 
Then swaggering half a hair's breadth, 

hungrily 
He seized upon an atom of bug, and fed. 

One was a tattered monad, called a 
poet ; 
And with shrill voice ecstatic thus he 
sang: 



$2 Five Lives 

" Oh, the little female monad's lips ! 
Oh, the little female monad's eyes ! 
Ah, the little, little, female, female mo* 
nad ! " 

The last was a strong-minded monadess, 
Who dashed amid the infusoria, 
Danced high and low, and wildly spun 

and dove 
Till the dizzy others held their breath to 

see. 

But while they led their wondrous little 

lives 
Ionian moments had gone wheeling by. 
The burning drop had shrunk with fearful 

speed ; 
A glistening film — 't was gone ; the leaf 

was dry. 
The little ghost of an inaudible squeak 
Was lost to the frog that goggled from his 

stone ; 



Five Lives 53 

Who, at the huge, slow tread of a thought- 
ful ox 

Coming to drink, stirred sideways fatly, 
plunged, 

Launched backward twice, and all the 
pool was still. 




TRANQUILLITY. 

[EARY, and marred with care and 
pain 
And bruising days, the human 

brain 
Draws wounded inward, — it might be 
Some delicate creature of the sea, 
That, shuddering, shrinks its lucent dome, 
And coils its azure tendrils home, 
And folds its filmy curtains tight 
At jarring contact, e'er so light ; 
But let it float away all free, 
And feel the buoyant, supple sea 
Among its tinted streamers swell, 
Again it spreads its gauzy wings, 
And, waving its wan fringes, swings 
With rhythmic pulse its crystal bell. 

So let the mind, with care o'erwrought, 
Float down the tranquil tides of thought : 



Tranquillity 55 

Calm visions of unending years 

Beyond this little moment's fears ; 

Of boundless regions far from where 

The girdle of the azure air 

Binds to the earth the prisoned mind. 

Set free the fancy, till it find 

Beyond our world a vaster place 

To thrill and vibrate out through space, — 

As some auroral banner streams 

Up through the night in pulsing gleams, 

And floats and flashes o'er our dreams ; 

There let the whirling planet fall 

Down — down, till but a glimmering ball^ 

A misty star : and dwindled so, 

There is no room for care, or woe, 

Or wish, apart from that one Will 

That doth the worlds with music fill. 




DARE YOU? 

OUBTING Thomas and loving 
John, 
Behind the others walking on : — 



" Tell me now, John, dare you be 
One of the minority ? 
To be lonely in your thought, 
Never visited nor sought, 
Shunned with secret shrug, to go 
Thro' the world esteemed its foe ; 
To be singled out and hissed, 
Pointed at as one unblessed, 
Warned against in whispers faint, 
Lest the children catch a taint ; 
To bear off your titles well, — 
Heretic and infidel ? 
If you dare, come now with me, 
Fearless, confident, and free." 



Dare You? $j 

" Thomas, do you dare to be 
Of the great majority ? 
To be only, as the rest, 
With Heaven's common comforts blessed ; 
To accept, in humble part, 
Truth that shines on every heart ; 
Never to be set on high, 
Where the envious curses fly ; 
Never name or fame to find, 
Still outstripped in soul and mind ; 
To be hid, unless to God, 
As one grass-blade in the sod, 
Underfoot with millions trod ? 
If you dare, come with us be 
Lost in love's great unity. 




THE INVISIBLE. 

F there is naught but what we see, 
What is the wide world worth to 
me ? 

But is there naught save what we see ? 
A thousand things on every hand 
My sense is numb to understand : 
I know we eddy round the sun ; 
When has it dizzied any one ? 
I know the round worlds draw from far, 
Through hollow systems, star to star ; 
But who has e'er upon a strand 
Of those great cables laid his hand ? 
What reaches up from room to room 
Of chambered earth, through glare or 

gloom, 
Through molten flood and fiery blast, 
And binds our hurrying feet so fast ? 
'T is the earth-mother's love, that well 



The Invisible 59 

Will hold the motes that round her dwell : 
Through granite hills you feel it stir 
As lightly as through gossamer : 
Its grasp unseen by mortal eyes, 
Its grain no lens can analyze. 

If there is naught but what we see, 
The friend I loved is lost to me : 
He fell asleep ; who dares to say 
His spirit is so far away ? 
Who knows what wings are round about ? 
These thoughts — who proves but from 

without 
They still are whispered ? Who can think 
They rise from morning's food and drink ! 
These thoughts that stream on like the 

sea, 
And darkly beat incessantly 
The feet of some great hope, and break, 
And only broken glimmers make, 
Nor ever climb the shore, to lie 
And calmly mirror the far sky, 
And image forth in tranquil deeps 
The secret that its silence keeps. 



60 The Invisible 

Because he never comes, and stands 
And stretches out to me both hands, 
Because he never leans before 
The gate, when I set wide the door 
At morning, nor is ever found 
Just at my side when I turn round, 
Half thinking I shall meet his eyes, 
From watching the broad moon-globe 

rise, — 
For all this, shall I homage pay 
To Death, grow cold of heart, and say : 
" He perished, and has ceased to be ; 
Another comes, but never he " ? 
Nay, by our wondrous being, nay ! 
Although his face I never see 
Through all the infinite To Be, 
I know he lives and cares for ma 




PEACE. 

IS not in seeking, 
'T is not in endless striving, 
Thy quest is found : 
Be still and listen ; 
Be still and drink the quiet 
Of all around. 

Not for thy crying, 

Not for thy loud beseeching, 

Will peace draw near : 
Rest with palms folded ; 
Rest with thine eyelids fallen — 

Lo ! peace is here. 




THE FOOL'S PRAYER. 

HE royal feast was done ; the 
King 
Sought some new sport to ban- 
ish care, 
And to his jester cried : " Sir Fool, 

Kneel now, and make for us a prayer ! " 

The jester doffed his cap and bells, 
And stood the mocking court before ; 

They could not see the bitter smile 
Behind the painted grin he wore. 

He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
Upon the monarch's silken stool ; 

His pleading voice arose : " O Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
From red with wrong to white as wool ; 



The Fool's Prayer 63 

The rod must heal the sin : but Lord, 
Be merciful to me, a fool ! 

" 'T is not by guilt the onward sweep 
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay ; 

'T is by our follies that so long 

We hold the earth from heaven away. 

" These clumsy feet, still in the mire, 
Go crushing blossoms without end ; 

These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
Among the heart-strings of a friend. 

" The ill-timed truth we might have kept — 
Who knows how sharp it pierced and 
stung ? 

The word we had not sense to say — 
Who knows how grandly it had rung ? 

" Our faults no tenderness should ask, 
The chastening stripes must cleanse 
them all ; 

But for our blunders — oh, in shame 
Before the eyes of heaven we fall. 



64 The Fool's Prayer 

" Earth bears no balsam for mistakes ; 

Men crown the knave, and scourge the 
tool 
That did his will ; but Thou, O Lord, 

Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 

The room was hushed ; in silence rose 
The King, and sought his gardens cool, 

And walked apart, and murmured low, 
" Be merciful to me, a fool ! " 




THE DESERTER. 

LINDEST and most frantic 
prayer, 
Clutching at a senseless boon, 
His that begs, in mad despair, 

Death to come ; — he comes so soon ! 

Like a reveler that strains 

Lip and throat to drink it up — 

The last ruby that remains, 
One red droplet in the cup. 

Like a child that, sullen, mute, 

Sulking spurns, with chin on breast, 

Of the Tree of Life a fruit, 

His gift of whom he is the guest. 

Outcast on the thither shore, 

Open scorn to him shall give 
Souls that heavier burdens bore : — 

" See the wretch that dared not live ! " 




THE REFORMER. 

EFORE the monstrous wrong he 
sets him down — 
One man against a stone-walled 
city of sin. 

For centuries those walls have been 
a-building ; 

Smooth porphyry, they slope and coldly 
glass 

The flying storm and wheeling sun. No 
chink, 

No crevice lets the thinnest arrow in. 

He fights alone, and from the cloudy ram- 
parts 

A thousand evil faces gibe and jeer him. 

Let him lie down and die : what is the 
right, 

And where is justice, in a world like this ? 



The Reformer 67 

But by and by, earth shakes herself, im- 
patient ; 

And down, in one great roar of ruin, crash 

Watch-tower and citadel and battlements. 

When the red dust has cleared, the lonely 
soldier 

Stands with strange thoughts beneath the 
friendly stars. 



DESIRE OF SLEEP. 




T is not death I mean, 
Nor even forgetfulness, 
But healthful human sleep. 
Dreamless, and still, and deep, 
Where I would hide and glean 
Some heavenly balm to bless. 

I would not die ; I long 
To live, to see my days 
Bud once again, and bloom, 
And make amidst them room 
For thoughts like birds of song 9 
Out-winging happy ways. 

I would not even forget : 
Only, a little while — 
Just now — I cannot bear 
Remembrance with despair ; 



Desire of Sleep 69 

The years are coming yet 
When I shall look, and smile. 



Not now — oh, not to-night ! 
Too clear on midnight's deep 
Come voice and hand and touch ; 
The heart aches overmuch — 

Hush sounds ! shut out the light ! 
A little I must sleep. 




HER EXPLANATION. 

O you have wondered at me, — 
guessed in vain 
What the real woman is you 
know so well ? 
I am a lost illusion. Some strange 
spell 
Once made your friend there, with his 
fine disdain 

Of fact, conceive me perfect. He would 
fain 

(But could not) see me always, as be- 
fell 
His dream to see me, plucking aspho- 
del, 
In saffron robes, on some celestial plain. 
All that I was he marred and flung away 
In quest of what I was not, could not 

be, — 
Lilith, or Helen, or Antigone. 



Her Explanation j\ 

Still he may search ; but I have had my 
day, 
And now the Past is all the part for me 
That this world's empty stage has left to 
play. 




EVE'S DAUGHTER. 

WAITED in the little sunny 
room : 
The cool breeze waved the win- 
dow-lace, at play, 
The white rose on the porch was all in 
bloom, 
And out upon the bay 
I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and 
come. 

" Such an old friend, — she would not 
make me stay 
While she bound up her hair." I turned, 
and lo, 
Danae in her shower ! and fit to slay 

All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow : 
Gold hair, that streamed away 

As round some nymph a sunlit foun- 
tain's flow. 



Eve's Daughter j$ 

u She would not make me wait ! " — but 

well I know 
She took a good half-hour to loose and 

lay 
Those locks in dazzling disarrangement 

sol 




BLINDFOLD. 

HAT do we know of the world, as 
we grow so old and wise ? 
Do the years, that still the heart- 
beats, quicken the drowsy eyes ? 
At twenty we thought we knew it, — the 

world there, at our feet ; 
We thought we had found its bitter, we 

knew we had found its sweet. 
Now at forty and fifty, what do we make 

of the world ? 
There in her sand she crouches, the 

Sphinx with her gray wings furled. 
Soul of a man I know not ; who knoweth, 

can foretell, 
And what can I read of fate, even of self 

I have learned so well ? 
Heart of a woman I know not : how 

should I hope to know, 



Blindfold 75 

I that am foiled by a flower, or the stars 

of the silent snow ; 
I that have never guessed the mind of the 

bright-eyed bird, 
Whom even the dull rocks cheat, and the 

whirlwind's awful word ? 
Let me loosen the fillet of clay from the 

shut and darkened lid, 
For life is a blindfold game, and the Voice 

from view is hid. 
I face him as best I can, still groping, 

here and there, 
For the hand that has touched me lightly, 

the lips that have said, " Declare ! " 
Well, I declare him my friend, — the 

friend of the whole sad race ; 
And oh, that the game were over, and I 

might see his face ! 
But 'tis much, though I grope in blind- 
ness, the Voice that is hid from 

view 
May be heard, may be even loved, in a 

dream that may come true. 




RECALL. 

OVE me, or I am slain ! " I cried, 

and meant 

Bitterly true each word. Nights, 

morns, slipped by, 

Moons, circling suns, yet still alive am I ; 

But shame to me, if my best time be spent 

On this perverse, blind passion ! Are we 

sent 
Upon a planet just to mate and die, 
A man no more than some pale butterfly 
That yields his day to nature's sole intent ? 

Or is my life but Marguerite's ox-eyed 

flower, 
That I should stand and pluck and fling 

away, 
One after one, the petal of each hour, 



Recall yy 

Like a love-dreamy girl, and only say, 

" Loves me," and " loves me not," and 

" loves me " ? Nay ! 
Let the man's mind awake to manhood's 

power. 




STRANGE. 

E died at night. Next day they 

came 
To weep and praise him : sudden 
fame 
These suddenly warm comrades gave. 
They called him pure, they called him 

brave ; 
One praised his heart, and one his brain ; 
All said, You 'd seek his like in vain, — 
Gentle, and strong, and good : none saw 
In all his character a flaw. 

At noon he wakened from his trance, 
Mended, was well ! They looked askance ; 
Took his hand coldly ; loved him not, 
Though they had wept him ; quite forgot 
His virtues ; lent an easy ear 
To slanderous tongues ; professed a fear 



Strange 79 

He was not what he seemed to be ; 
Thanked God they were not such as he ; 
Gave to his hunger stones for bread ; 
And made nim, living, wish him dead 




WIEGENLIED. 



E still and sleep, my soul ! 
Now gentle-footed Night 
In softly shadowed stole, 
Holds all the day from sight. 



Why shouldst thou lie and stare 
Against the dark, and toss, 

And live again thy care, 
Thine agony and loss ? 

'T was given thee to live, 
And thou hast lived it all ; 

Let that suffice, nor give 

One thought what may befall. 

Thou hast no need to wake, 
Thou art no sentinel ; 

Love all the care will take, 
And Wisdom watcheth welL 



IViegenlied 81 

Weep not, think not, but rest ! 

The stars in silence roll ; 
On the world's mother-breast, 

Be still and sleep, my soul I 




AN ANCIENT ERROR. 

He that has, and a little tiny wit, — . 
With a heigh, ho, the wind and the rain. 

Lear. 

HE " sobbing wind," the "weep- 
ing rain," — 
'T is time to give the lie 
To these old superstitions twain, 
That poets sing and sigh. 



Taste the sweet drops, — no tang of brine ; 

Feel them, — they do not burn ; 
The daisy-buds, whereon they shine, 

Laugh, and to blossoms turn. 

There is no natural grief or sin ; 

'T is we have flung the pall, 
And brought the sound of sorrow in. 

Pan is not dead at all. 



An Ancient Error 83 

The merry Pan ! his blithesome look 
Twinkles through sun and rain ; 

By ivied rock and rippled brook 
He pipes his jocund strain. 

If winds have wailed and skies wept tears, 

To poet's vision dim, 
T was that his own sobs filled his ears, 

His weeping blinded him. 

'T is laughing breeze and singing shower, 

As ever heart could need ; 
And who with " heigh " and " ho " must 
lower 

Hath " tiny wit " indeed. 




TO A FACE AT A CONCERT. 

|HEN the low music makes a dusk 
of sound 
About us, and the viol or far-off 
horn 
Swells out above it like a wind forlorn, 
That wanders seeking something never 
found, 
What phantom in your brain, on what 
dim ground, 
Traces its shadowy lines ? What vision, 

born 
Of unfulfillment, fades in mere self- 
scorn, 
Or grows, from that still twilight stealing 
round ? 
When the lids droop and the hands lie 
unstrung, 



To a Face at a Concert 85 

Dare one divine your dream, while the 

chords weave 
Their cloudy woof from key to key, and 

die, — 
Is it one fate that, since the world was 

young, 
Has followed man, and makes him half 

believe 
The voice of instruments a human cry ? 




TWO VIEWS OF IT. 

WORLD, O glorious world, 

good-by ! " 
Time but to think it — one 
wild cry 
Unuttered, a heart-wrung farewell 
To sky and wood and flashing stream, 
All gathered in a last swift gleam, 
As the crag crumbled, and he fell. 

But lo ! the thing was wonderful ! 
After the echoing crash, a lull : 
The great fir on the slope below 
Had spread its mighty mother-arm, 
And caught him, springing like a bow 
Of steel, and lowered him safe from harm. 

'T was but an instant's dark and daze : 
Then, as he felt each limb was sound, 



Two Views of it 87 

And slowly from the swooning haze 
The dizzy trees stood still that whirled, 
And the familiar sky and ground, 
There grew with them across his brain 
A dull regret : " So, world, dark world 9 
You are come back again ! " 




THE LINKS OF CHANCE. 

OLDING apoise in air 
My twice-dipped pen, — for some 
tense thread of thought 
Had snapped, — mine ears were half 
aware 
Of passing wheels ; eyes saw, but mind 
saw not, 
My sun-shot linden. Suddenly, as I 
stare, 
Two shifting visions grow and fade un- 
sought : — 

Noon-blaze : the broken shade 
Of ruins strown. Two Tartar lovers 
sit: 
She gazing on the ground, face turned, 
afraid ; 



The Links of Chance 89 

And he, at her. Silence is all his wit. 
She stoops, picks up a pebble of green 
jade 
To toss : they watch its flight, unheeding 
it. 

Ages have rolled away ; 
And round the stone, by chance, if chance 
there be, 
Sparse soil has caught ; a seed, wind- 
lodged one day, 
Grown grass ; shrubs sprung ; at last a 
tufted tree : 
Lo ! over its snake root yon conquering 
Bey 
Trips backward, righting — and half Asia 
free! 




"WORDS, WORDS, WORDS." 
(to one who flouted them as vain.) 

I. 

M I not weary of them as your 
heart 
Or ever Hamlet's was ? — the 
empty ones, 
Mere breath of passing air, mere hollow 

tones 
That idle winds to broken reeds impart. 

Have they not cursed my life ? — sounds 

I mistook 
For sacred verities, — love, faith, delight, 
And the sweet tales that women tell at 

night, 
When darkness hides the falsehood of the 

look. 



"Words, Words, Words" gi 

I was the one of all Ulysses' crew 
(What time he stopped their ears) that 

leaped and fled 
Unto the sirens, for the honey-dew 

Of their dear songs. The poets me have 

fed 
With the same poisoned fruit. And even 

you, — 

Did you not pluck them for me in days 
dead ? 

ii. 

Nay, they do bear a blessing and a pow- 
er, — 

Great words and true, that bridge from 
soul to soul 

The awful cloud-depths that betwixt us 
roll. 

I will not have them so blasphemed. This 
hour, 



92 "Words, Words, Words" 

This little hour of life, this lean to-day, — 

What were it worth but for those mighty 
dreams 

That sweep from down the past on sound- 
ing streams 

Of such high-thoughted words as poets 
say? 



What, but for Shakespeare's and for Ho- 
mer's lay, 

And bards whose sacred names all lips 
repeat ? 

Words, — only words ; yet, save for tongue 
and pen 

Of those great givers of them unto men, 
And burdens they still bear of grave or 

sweet, 
This world were but for beasts, a darkling 

den. 




THE THRUSH. 

HE thrush sings high on the top- 
most bough, — 
Low, louder, low again ; and now 
He has changed his tree, — you know not 
how, 
For you saw no flitting wing. 

All the notes of the forest-throng, 
Flute, reed, and string, are in his song ; 
Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, 
Nor a doubt of anything. 

Small room for care in that soft breast ; 
All weather that comes is to him the best, 
While he sees his mate close on her nest, 
And the woods are full of spring. 



g4 Tide Thrush 

He has lost his last year's love, I know, — 
He, too, — but 't is little he keeps of woe ; 
For a bird forgets in a year, and so 
No wonder the thrush can sing. 




CARPE DIEM. 

OW the dull thought smites me 
dumb, 
" It will come ! " and " It will 
come ! " 
But to-day I am not dead ; 
Life in hand and foot and head 
Leads me on its wondrous ways. 
'T is in such poor, common days, 
Made of morning, noon, and night, 
Golden truth has leaped to light, 
Potent messages have sped, 
Torches flashed with running rays, 
World-runes started on their flight. 

Let it come, when come it must ; 
But To-Day from out the dust 
Blooms and brightens like a flower, 
Fair with love, and faith, and power e 
Pluck it with unclouded will, 
From the great tree Igdrasil. 




SERVICE. 

RET not that the day is gone, 
And thy task is still undone. 
'T was not thine, it seems, at ail : 
Near to thee it chanced to fall, 
Close enough to stir thy brain, 
And to vex thy heart in vain. 
Somewhere, in a nook forlorn, 
Yesterday a babe was born : 
He shall do thy waiting task ; 
All thy questions he shall ask, 
And the answers will be given, 
Whispered lightly out of heaven. 
His shall be no stumbling feet, 
Falling where they should be fleet ; 
He shall hold no broken clue ; 
Friends shall unto him be true ; 
Men shall love him ; falsehood's aim 
Shall not shatter his good name. 



Service gy 

Day shall nerve his arm with light, 
Slumber soothe him all the night ; 
Summer's peace and winter's storm 
Help him all his will perform. 
'T is enough of joy for thee 
His high service to foresee. 




THE BOOK OF HOURS. 

S one who reads a tale writ in a 
tongue 
He only partly knows, — runs 
over it 
And follows but the story, losing wit 
And charm, and half the subtle links 

among 
The haps and harms that the book's folk 
beset, — 
So do we with our life. Night comes, 

and morn : 
I know that one has died and one is 
born ; 
That this by love and that by hate is met. 
But all the grace and glory of it fail 
To touch me, and the meanings they 
enfold. 



The Booh of Hours 99 

The Spirit of the World hath told the tale, 
And tells it : and 't is very wise and old. 

But o'er the page there is a mist and veil : 
I do not know the tongue in which 't is 
told. 



Lrcf c: 




THE WONDERFUL THOUGHT. 

T comes upon me in the woods, 
Of all the days, this day in May : 
When wind and rain can never 
think 
Whose turn 't is now to have its way. 

It finds me as I lie along, 

Blinking up through the swaying trees, 
Half wondering if a man who reads 

" Blue sky " in books that color sees, — 

So fathomless and pure : as if 

All loveliest azure things have gone 

To heaven that way, — the flowers, the 
sea, — 
And left their color there alone. 

Hark ! leaning on each other's arms, 
The pines are whispering in the breeze, 



The Wonderful Thought 101 

Whispering, — then hushing, half in awe 
Their legends of primeval seas. 

The wild things of the wood come out, 
And stir or hide, as wild things will, 

Like thoughts that may not be pursued, 
But come if one is calm and still. 

Deep hemlocks down the gorge shut in 
Their caves with hollow shadow filled, 

Where little feathered anchorites 
Behind a sunlit lattice build. 

And glimmering through that lace of 
boughs, 

Dancing, while they hang darker still, 
Along the restful river shines 

The restless light's incessant thrill : 

As in some sober, silent soul, 

Whose life appears a tranquil stream, 
Through some unguarded rift you catch 

The wildest wishes, all agleam. 



102 The Wonderful Thought 

But to my thought — so wonderful ! 

I know if once 'twere told, all men 
Would feel it warm at heart, and life 

Be more than it had ever been. 

T would make these flowerless woods 
laugh out 

With every garden-color bright, 
Where only, now, the dogwood hangs 

Its scattered cloud of ghostly white. 

Those birds would hold no more aloof : — 
How know they I am here, so well ? 

'Tis yon woodpecker's warning note ; 
He is their seer and sentinel. 

They use him, but his faithfulness 
Perchance in human fashion pay, — 

Laugh in their feathers at his voice, 
And ridicule his stumbling way. 

That far-off flute-note — hours in vain 
I Ve followed it, so shy and fleet ; 



The Wonderful Thought 103 

But if I found him, well I know 

His song would seem not half so sweet. 

The swift, soft creatures, — how I wish 
They 'd trust me, and come perch upon 

My shoulders ! Do they guess that then 
Their charm would be forever gone ? 

But still I prate of sight and sound ; 

Ah, well, 't is always so in rhyme ; 
The idle fancies find a voice, 

The wise thought waits — another time 




NATURE AND HER CHILD. 

PS some poor child whose soul is 
windowless, 
Having not hearing, speech, nor 
sight, sits lone 
In her dark, silent life, till cometh one 
With a most patient heart, who tries to 
guess 

Some hidden way to help her helplessness, 
And, yearning for that spirit shut in stone, 
A crystal that has never seen the sun, 
Smooths now the hair, and now the hand 
will press, 

Or gives a key to touch, then letters 

raised, 
Its symbol ; then an apple, or a ring, 
And again letters, — so, all blind and 

dumb, 



Nature and her Child 105 

We wait ; the kindly smiles of summer 

come, 
And soft winds touch our cheek, and 

thrushes sing ; 
The world-heart yearns, but we stand dull 

and dazed. 




THE FOSTER-MOTHER. 

S some poor Indian woman 
A captive child receives, 
And warms it in her bosom, 
And o'er its weeping grieves ; 

And comforts it with kisses, 
And strives to understand 

Its eager, lonely babble, 
Fondling the little hand, — 

So Earth, our foster-mother, 
Yearns for us, with her great 

Wild heart, and croons in murmurs 
Low, inarticulate. 

She knows we are white captives, 

Her dusky race above, 
But the deep, childless bosom 

Throbs with its brooding love. 




TRUTH AT LAST. 

OES a man ever give up hope, I 
wonder, — 
Face the grim fact, seeing it clear 

as day ? 
When Bennen saw the snow slip, heard 

its thunder 
Low, louder, roaring round him, felt the 

speed 
Grow swifter as the avalanche hurled 

downward, 
Did he for just one heart-throb — did he 

indeed 
Know with all certainty, as they swept 

onward, 
There was the end, where the crag 

dropped away? 
Or did he think, even till they plunged and 

fell, 



108 Truth at Last 

Some miracle would stop them ? Nay, 

they tell 
That he turned round, face forward, calm 

and pale. 
Stretching his arms out toward his native 

vale 
As if in mute, unspeakable farewell, 
And so went down. — 'T is something, if at 

last, 
Though only for a flash, a man may see 
Clear-eyed the future as he sees the past, 
From doubt, or fear, or hope's illusion 

free. 




"QUEM METUI MOEJTURA?" 

iENEID, IV. 604. 

HAT need have I to fear — so 
soon to die ? 
Let me work on, not watch and 
wait in dread : 
What will it matter, when that I am 
dead, 
That they bore hate or love who near me 

lie? 
'T is but a lifetime, and the end is nigh 
At best or worst. Let me lift up my 

head 
And firmly, as with inner courage, tread 
Mine own appointed way, on mandates 

high. 
Pain could but bring, from all its evil store, 
The close of pain : hate's venom could 
but kill ; 



no " Quern Metui Moritura ? " 

Repulse, defeat, desertion, could no more. 
Let me have lived my life, not cowered 

until 
The unhindered and unhastened hour was 

here. 
So soon — what is there in the world to 

fear ? 




A MORNING THOUGHT. 

HAT if some morning, when the 
stars were paling, 
And the dawn whitened, and 
the East was clear, 
Strange peace and rest fell on me from 
the presence 
Of a benignant Spirit standing near : 

And I should tell him, as he stood beside 
me, 
" This is our Earth — most friendly 
Earth, and fair ; 
Daily its sea and shore through sun and 
shadow 
Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air : 

"There is blest living here, loving and 
serving, 
And quest of truth, and serene friend- 
ships dear ; 



112 A Morning Thought 

But stay not, Spirit ! Earth has one 
destroyer — 
His name is Death : flee, lest he find 
thee here ! " 

And what if then, while the still morning 
brightened, 
And freshened in the elm the Summer's 
breath, 
Should gravely smile on me the gentle 
angel 
And take my hand and say, " My name 
is Death." 



JUL 21 t90 2 



mBHP 
WH-. 

Wmm I 

BffilHB 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




012 072 505 1 






H 



■ 



